Danger Days
by jasbredavral
Summary: Sequel to 'Rivalita'.  In which old secrets are revealed, new alliances are forged and Sark tries really hard to get some pancakes.  Sarkney, alternate S3/S4.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Alias is not mine. Alas, alack, etc.

This is a sequel to my earlier Sarkney fic, "Rivalita," but you shouldn't have to read that for this to make sense. It would, of course, delight me if you decided to go and read it anyway. :D

**I. The Sharpest Lives**

_we kept our friends at bay all summer long  
><em>_treated the days as though they'd kill us if they could  
><em>_wringing out the hours like blood-drenched bedsheets  
><em>_to keep wintertime at bay, but December showed up anyway_

Even on a sunny day, winter in Wisconsin was nothing to sneer at. All the streets had been cleared since the most recent storm, but ten solid inches of packed snow and ice covered the field around the construction site. Sydney leaned nervously against the rental car in boots and a parka and tried not to feel to exposed against the backdrop of white. Tried not to acknowledge that she felt far more _nervous_ than simply _exposed_.

She tried to remind herself that she'd had good reasons for keeping him in the dark for an extra five months, but all those reasons were hazy now. Had there really been any point in continuing the deception? Had it actually protected him, or had she just . . . not wanted to deal with it?

That was unacceptable, she chastised herself. Will had been her best friend, two-year separation or not, and he deserved—

"Sydney!"

As soon as he caught sight of her, Will Tippin bolted ahead of his handler and approached at a run. Unfortunately he slipped on a leftover patch of ice on the sidewalk, and ended up crushing Sydney into the car more than hugging her. "Shit! Sorry! Oh my god, Syd! Oh my god it's so good to see you! Where the hell have you _been_, I—"

"Will!" she choked out through her laughter. "Crushing!"

"Right! Sorry," he half-heartedly apologized, stepping back onto the sidewalk and pulling her with him. For a moment they just stood there, beaming at each other. Then Tippin's handler cleared his throat a little too pointedly, and they both struggled to regain a sense of where they were.

"Do you want to . . . go get coffee or something?" Sydney suggested, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

Will was grinning again. "Love to."

They went to a nearby coffee shop, where they ordered and then discarded their winter coats, as directed, at a table where Will's handler could easily keep an eye on both them and the exits. "I don't even know where to start," said Sydney, once they'd collected their drinks from the counter and taken their seats.

"Oh, I don't know, how about your _escape from certain death_?" Will suggested, on the verge of incredulous laughter.

"Right… that." She gave him a slightly chagrined smile and nodded once. _Where to begin . . ._ "There's this group. The Covenant."

"Bad guys?"

Another nod. "Very bad guys. They kidnapped me and tried to brainwash me, but—well, to make a long story short, it didn't work. I started working undercover again, but nobody knew, not even—Vaughn. Then there was this, um..." She paused as a few harried-looking college students squeezed between the tables with backpacks and coffee in tow. "A procedure. It didn't go well, and I kind of . . . lost my memories."

"Wh— _seriously?_" Will's eyes darted across her face as if searching for physical evidence.

"More like it scrambled them, I guess. Next thing I know I'm in London, and I don't know how I got there, or anything until I was . . . found."

"Found, found by who?"

Sydney looked up at him, looked back down at the caribou design on the table, bit her lip, laced her fingers together. "By Sark," she replied, quiet but clear. It was a bombshell she didn't want to drop, but if she didn't start being honest now she'd never get out the rest.

"Oh, god! Sydney— did he hurt you? because I swear to god I will hunt that bastard down myself and—"

"Will, no. No. Sark . . ." A deep breath. "He helped me. He returned me to the CIA, and now he's helping us take down the Covenant."

He scoffed quietly, bitter and low in his throat. "Why? Crazy bad guys? Sounds right up his alley."

"They killed his father," she said, which was completely true but not the answer to Will's question. "I admit, we all had our reservations, but—"

"Reservations? Syd, that guy's a fucking psycho!"

"_Will_," she snapped, as forcefully as she could without attracting attention. Her friend's eyes widened, and then his expression shifted, just enough for Sydney to know that she'd given herself away. Will shifted in his seat and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He was clearly nervous, but it was just as obvious that he was about to ask the question he'd so rarely voiced, the question that had been off-limits in their friendship for years.

"Syd . . . what aren't you telling me?"

_Fuck. Fuck. You're a CIA agent, for the love of god, you can do this._

"Sark and I— we—" She spread her hands, palm-up, helplessly. And in a flash of reporter's insight, she knew that he understood. It was almost good, in a way. It kept her from trying to say things like _we're a couple_ or _we're sleeping together_ or _I love him so much it's like…_ and she would have to trail off there, because it wasn't _like_ anything, it just existed, private and perfect and painfully real. (And, thus far, successfully kept secret from the CIA, which was also good.)

But it wasn't good at all, really, because her best friend in the world was staring at her as if she were a complete stranger—or worse.

As if she'd betrayed him so completely he didn't even want to recognize her anymore.

"Will, please. Say something."

"Just . . ." He covered his eyes with one hand and squeezed at his temples. "Give me a minute."

She sipped carefully at her coffee — it wasn't hot anymore, but her fingers were trembling. She'd known this might happen, but she couldn't stand the idea that Will might never want to see her again. _What did you expect_, she berated herself, setting down the cup before she could spill latte everywhere. _You're sleeping with the man who had Will abducted and tortured, who helped kill Francie . . . and you honestly expect to be forgiven? 'Oh, that's nice, Syd, how do you like my haircut?'_

Sydney opened her mouth to say something, she didn't know what, but just then Will raised his head and looked her in the eye, and her mouth snapped shut.

"Just tell me one thing, okay, and then, that's it."

She just nodded. Her long-fingered hands were wrapped, white-knuckled, around her coffee cup.

"Are you happy? Honestly."

Soft, shaky exhalation. Steady breath in. "Yes."

"Okay. Okay." He ducked his head for a moment, and she was almost certain he was going to bolt. But then he looked up again, with a clear expression only belied by the tightness around his eyes. "So, how're things with your dad? He must be glad to have you back."

She wanted to hug him, or burst into tears. _Get it together, Bristow, this is a thousand times harder for him than it is for you._ "He's . . . about the same, I guess," she said, with only the tiniest crack in her voice. "To hear Marshall tell it, he raised all kinds of hell trying to find me."

Will actually snickered softly at that. "Yeah, that sounds like Jack."

"He, uh, ended up in prison, actually."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. He got in contact with my mom, tried to pool resources."

"Let me guess. You're the one that got him out."

Sydney just smiled, because she'd be damned if she'd tell him it had been Sark's doing. Not when things were so painfully delicate.

"So what about you, what've you been up to?"

"Uh . . . freezing my ass off?" he offered, and when they started laughing together, something deep in her chest started leaping for joy over the fact that they just might come out of this all right. "Well, y'know, I've got the construction gig and all. Every once in a while they let me sort through some files for old cases or whatever. Not the most exciting thing I've ever done, but it's closer to investigative journalism than hitting my thumb with a hammer."

"I heard about that! They said you've been really helpful."

"Eh, well, I try," Will shrugged, even though the praise made his ears turn pink.

"Met any nice Midwestern girls?" she teased, and grinned broadly when the blush consumed Will's entire face. "Oh, I knew it!"

"Her name is Michelle. She's, uh, an artist, mostly does stuff around here, and, uh . . . Iactuallyproposedlastweek." The last words were thrown out so quickly she almost didn't catch them, and were followed by a smile that was half-giddy, half-guilty. "Maybe I should have, um, led with that . . ."

"Oh my god, Will!" she exclaimed in the whisper tone of someone who would really rather be shrieking. "That's amazing! How did you— when are you— _oh my god_—"

"Slow down, Syd, you're gonna give yourself a heart attack," said Will, clearly trying not to laugh at her babbling.

"I can't believe you _just now_ told—"

"Agent Bristow."

The tone got Sydney's attention immediately, and the laughter died in her throat. Will's handler was standing next to their table, just removing his fingertips from his earpiece, and through his continued no-nonsense demeanor she sensed urgency.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but there's a situation. Your car will be arriving in approximately one minute, and you will proceed to the airport."

"What, is—is Will in danger?"

"No, ma'am. You'll be debriefed en route."

"All right." She stood reluctantly, purse in hand, and knew her forehead was creasing in concern. "Will—"

"Hey, no need to apologize. I'm used to it, remember?" he teased, grinning lopsidedly. And maybe the expression was a little forced, and maybe it was just her imagination, but one thing Sydney knew was that she couldn't deal with it now. "Go save the world, Syd."

It was impossible not to smile in return. "I'll do my best," she murmured, and left the diner without looking back.

The car pulled up with impeccable timing as she reached the curb. It was the sort of thing she'd come to expect from the black-ops CIA operative to whom she'd been assigned as a handler—and who therefore was her responsibility. She slipped smoothly into the backseat and closed the door immediately. Their driver hit the accelerator before she'd even buckled herself in. "The Covenant?" she asked by way of greeting.

"Naturally," Sark replied, watching her with his customary neutral expression. "It seems the time has come for Arvin to make his move."

_Sloane._ He'd been abducted by the Covenant almost six months ago now, and had seemed to drop off the face of the earth. Considering the things he was capable of getting up to, it was enough to make anyone nervous. Sydney's throat constricted instinctively, and her voice came out low and tight. "What did he do?"

"We can't be certain, at the moment. But I believe this may have something to do with the Rambaldi artefact demanded by the Covenant in exchange for your release."

"Demanded by _you,_" she couldn't help pointing out.

He shrugged with his eyes, something she would never admit she'd practiced in front of a mirror and _still_ couldn't get right.

"How is dear William?"

Her lips thinned, ever so slightly. Will had been a forbidden topic between them, once upon a time, but their relationship was already enough of a tightrope walk; if there were things that couldn't be spoken of, secrets kept, honesty kept in check, they would have parted ways or killed each other long ago. "Settling in," she replied. "He's getting married."

"Well then, I suppose congratulations are in order."

Sydney turned her head until her temple rested against the headrest, facing him fully for the first time. With practiced ease, she managed to make a sarcastic face despite the way his eyes were quietly devouring the curve of her neck. "I don't think you'd better send a card."

"Mm. Perhaps not." Sark's eyes, caught right between blue and grey in this light, slid back to the papers in his lap.

"Where are we headed?" The _we_, she knew, was probably more wishful thinking than anything else. With what she'd overheard Director Devlin call 'the most elaborate CIA tap-dance number since the shit we pulled for the Warren Commission,' they had thus far managed to conceal Sark's defection from the Covenant, but as more Covenant operations failed across the world suspicions were bound to arise, if they hadn't already. Her father and Dixon had extraction plans in place, and at this point it was only a matter of time. But for now, despite her position as Sark's handler, they often went weeks at a time with no more contact than his mandatory check-ins.

"After you receive your official orders and op-tech in Los Angeles, you'll be going to Melbourne to meet with a Covenant mole. Leonid Lisenker."

"Huh." She leaned over to get a closer look at the blurred satellite image of a dark-haired man in nondescript clothing. "Name doesn't ring any bells."

"Given the recent losses and setbacks suffered by the Covenant, they appear to be playing things a little closer to the vest."

The corners of Sydney's mouth turned up in a small, almost predatory smile. "We've made them nervous."

Sark raised his head. She hadn't realized how close they were until his breath fell lightly on her cheek.

"It would appear so," he agreed quietly, his eyes never leaving hers. And she thought he would have seen it coming, but his breath still stuttered when she kissed him, bracing one hand uncomfortably on the center seat. Having coaxed Sark's mouth open, she decided that they would probably be safe enough for the remainder of the drive and unbuckled her seat belt to move closer. It was a rather gratifying, really, the way the folder of intel seemed to have been completely forgotten.

Unfortunately . . .

"One more… small detail," Sark whispered, breaking the kiss but not his hold on the back of her neck.

Well, that was the problem with the CIA, wasn't it. Always butting in with pesky vital information when she was doing her level best to make out in the backseat like a teenager. Which had nothing to do with a current need for closeness and reassurance. Her partner just happened to be fucking beautiful.

She held back a sigh and settled into a position that was slightly less on his lap. "What is it?"

Sark pressed his lips together as if trying not to smirk and gave her the big innocent blue eyes and she just _knew_ she was not going to like this.

"I've been asked to join Mr. Sloane in whatever it is he's planning to do. Director Dixon approved the orders about an hour ago."

"_Sark!_" she snapped, and then gritted her teeth to hold back all the uncomplimentary things she was just dying to say. Also the unnecessarily protective things about breaking _every damn bone in Sloane's body if he even touches you_. "If you get yourself killed . . ." she finally said, letting the threat trail off menacingly.

"Now, Sydney." His smirk was utterly unconcealed at this point. "Don't be ridiculous."

She smiled weakly in return and tried very hard not to remember the litany of people she'd loved and lost. Now was not the time for that. Instead she reached over and brushed a bit of imaginary lint from Sark's shirt. "Remember, I promised you pancakes next time you visit. You won't get any if you're dead."

The flash of morbid humor made his eyes crinkle at the corners, which was the closest he generally came to laughing when they were on the clock. "I will keep that in mind."

"Anything on Sloane since he left Omnifam?" Sydney glanced down at the papers, but the picture of Lisenker was still on top.

"Unconfirmed reports suggest that Arvin has formed an alliance with Kazari Bomani. Are you familiar with him?"

"Only a little," she mused, leaning absently into Sark's touch as his fingers stroked her neck. "African arms dealer, mercenary. Went underground for a while."

"He was never a known follower of Rambaldi, which suggests he's been offered some kind of compensation for his trouble."

"Are you meeting with both of them?" People who ran afoul of Bomani had an alarming tendency to accumulate missing limbs, or missing heads, and she did not relish the idea of that man's explosive temper (and machete) combined with Sloane's capacity for true evil.

"I'm not sure."

Sydney sighed quietly. He could take care of himself, and she had her own work to do.

"Approaching the airstrip," said their driver, brisk and efficient over the intercom. "Agent Bristow, you will be dropped off first."

She leaned forward to press the backseat's com button. "Thank you."

While the car entered through the secure gate and pulled in as close to her plane as it could safely get, Sydney pressed a last quick kiss to Sark's lips. God only knew how long he'd be occupied with whatever crazy plan Sloane had come up with now. "I'll see you," she told him hopefully as she stepped from the vehicle.

"Not if I see you first, love."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Oh my god, it's really happening! The sequel. In fact, if I don't run out of steam, I'm planning to write ten chapters of this, a follow-up one-shot tentatively subtitled "That Crazy Mission to Bring Down Elena That Involved Everyone and Their Mother," and a little set of three ficlets—one each for Irina, Sark, and McKenas, three of my favorite villains. If I do run out of steam, I'll… cry. So let's keep our fingers crossed on that front.

All the Rivalita reviewers are my favorite people, but this chapter's for Agent Sam, who gave me a very sweet review a few weeks ago. Hope you like it!


	2. Chapter 2

**II. The Jetset Life Is Gonna Kill You**

_There's an old Chinese curse:  
><em>'_May you live in interesting times.'_

Even in a small, swift CIA plane, the flight to Australia was nothing to scoff at. It didn't faze Quint Larson, who was munching his way through an improbably large bag of chips— but then again, things rarely seemed to faze him. Since the Lauren debacle and the weeks in which Vaughn's security clearance was revoked, Larson had been assigned as Sydney's partner for most missions in the field, and once she realized he was capable of being professional when he had to be, she'd come to appreciate his remarkably laid-back personality. It was better than being in a plane with Vaughn or her father, where things inevitably seemed to get tense.

Nevertheless . . .

"You're telling me you're _still_ hungry?" she asked, as if the evidence weren't right in front of her.

Since his face was pretty well stuffed, Quint just widened his eyes expressively. They were much more decisively blue than Sark's, a bright sort of color that didn't look quite real. "Remind me to get some of these in Australia," he said when he'd swallowed most of the chips. "Doritos are different there."

"I'll try to remember."

"A chup," said Quint in a bizarre voice. "A puh-tay-tuh chup. YouTube," he added by way of explanation when Sydney shot him a look that questioned his sanity.

"Never a dull moment," she sighed, stretching her feet out onto the seat facing hers.

"You need to get out more. And by 'out,' I mean 'on the internet.'"

"Thanks, but I think I've got enough things to worry about."

"Exactly," Quint told her, popping another chip in his mouth. "Kick back, relax for a bit, introduce yourself to Salad Fingers."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Ahh lahhke rustay spoooons." This voice was even stranger than the first.

"Are you sure you're a CIA agent?" she asked dryly, but the corners of her mouth were twitching upwards.

"Pretty sure it's what my ID says…" He made a show of digging around in his pockets until he came up with his badge, then held it very close to his face. "Oh god, I'm a plumber. Can we— can we turn this plane around?" he yelled, looking around as if the pilots would be in the seating area with them. "I'm a fraud!"

"Shhh," Sydney told him, gesturing for him to calm down but also giggling, which sort of ruined the effect. She was supposed to be the senior agent, dammit.

Larson was one of those boy geniuses that, unlike Marshall, acted more like a boy than a genius. Usually agents with that much sheer encyclopedic knowledge of foreign languages and customs (not to mention Krav Maga) were snapped up by the DC office, but Quint's wife was doing her postdoctorate research in the southwestern deserts and he'd refused to live on the other side of the country.

Quint himself was a college dropout. He was also prohibited from entering any Stanford campus after punching one of his professors in the face. Sydney occasionally wondered how so many people with authority issues came to work for an agency that basically ordered them around all the damn time.

"Man, now I need something sweet. D'you think they've got Jolly Ranchers around here somewhere?"

Then again, she also wondered whose bright idea it was to give this guy a gun.

**Helsinki**

Sark hated being cold—not just the chill he got when the thermostat was too low and he and Sydney started arguing over temperature settings, but the kind of cold one encountered when one came to Finland on a frosty February day and stood outdoors. It made his bones ache and his eyes burn. Sloane's last master plan had taken them to Mexico City. What, pray tell, was wrong with Mexico now?

He clenched his jaw and refused to cross his arms for warmth. Wasn't Arvin used to Los Angeles? Wasn't—

"Julian."

From the smooth turn to his left, one would never guess that Sark had been startled, or that his limbs were being frozen into stiffness. "Arvin," he returned coolly.

"It's good to see you again," said Sloane, a sentiment belied by the complete lack of warmth with which the two former allies regarded each other. Sark inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. They might have been responsible for hundreds of deaths between the two of them, but they were nothing if not polite.

"Cole was unclear about the details, but he seemed to believe that I could help—"

"Or at least help the Covenant keep an eye on me," Sloane interjected wryly. "They may require my services, but that doesn't mean I have their trust. Luckily I could use a partner as we move into the next stage of the operation. Time is of the essence; we should get to work as soon as possible."

"And what is it, exactly, that we'll be working on?" Careful scrutiny of Arvin's words, tone and body language had thus far revealed nothing.

"Now, Julian." He'd forgotten how much he despised that condescendingly paternal smile. "This isn't the place."

"Then might I suggest somewhere indoors?" said Sark, in perhaps a more biting tone than was necessary.

Sloane being what he was, he stood completely still and stared levelly at Sark. It was all mind games, as usual — they couldn't move forward without his say-so, and after all those years of playing the lamb at Omnifam Arvin had to be loving this. There was nothing to do but wait it out, which Sark did without the slightest reaction.

"Follow me," he finally said, and led Sark down the first side street of many, winding through the less-traveled areas of Helsinki.

Sark would have preferred to walk in silence, so he knew it was only a matter of time before Sloane spoke. Sure enough, they hadn't even made their second turn before he was apparently struck by a thought. "You know, Julian, this reminds me. About six months ago, Sydney paid me a visit."

"I suppose it _is_ remarkable that she did so voluntarily," he replied flippantly when it was clear Arvin wanted a response. Deep in the pockets of his coat, his fists were carefully not clenching, but the effort required was immense.

"Really. Because what I think is remarkable is that Sydney had not yet been returned to the CIA. In fact . . . she was being held captive. By you."

"As she was ultimately serving the interests of the Covenant—and, by extension, myself—I had no objection to allowing a certain degree of free rein. We removed evidence of a particularly sloppy Covenant operation, and McKenas later informed me that we had his… 'double thumbs up from the get-go', I believe was the phrase. And might I remind you, it's me you have to thank for the retrieval of that hourglass."

"Oh, you've served us all quite well, to be sure," Sloane conceded, not thrown off stride in the least. "But I can't help wondering if there was something more."

"I'm not sure what you're referring to."

The older man shot him a sideways glance as they passed under a street lamp. "Sydney is a very beautiful woman."

It was interesting, what that simple comment did to him. Sark did not consider himself a jealous or possessive individual by any means, and it wasn't as if he could possibly be threatened by a man Sydney loathed perhaps more than anyone in the world. Nor could he claim indignation on behalf of all Sloane had done to hurt her, since he'd been involved in several of those killings himself— Francie Calfo, Diane Dixon. But still it was difficult to think past the urge to cut out Arvin's tongue on the spot and choke him with it. An irrational desire, and one that certainly could not be acted upon, but there it remained, hot and bitter in the back of his throat.

"Your powers of observation continually astound. I fail to see the relevance." It was harsher than he should have been, but it was the best he could do.

"Yes, I suppose you might," said Sloane, and surprisingly, his tone was amused. "At first I thought there might be some sort of illicit affair between the two of you, but it didn't take long to realize that that was absurd. After all, she has every reason to despise you. Sydney is one of the most stringently moral individuals I've ever encountered— knowing her parents as I do, I'm not sure where she gets it. But she would never stoop to the level of a man like you."

"Thank you," he replied, his tone completely blank, "for that compelling insight."

"Oh, don't take it personally, Julian. It's human nature to want things we can never have." Arvin was obviously enjoying himself immensely. "I know you've had your eye on her from the beginning, and she exploited that, didn't she. Manipulated you to get what she wanted. She's very good at it. Superb."

"As you say." Let Sloane believe the irritation in his voice was a sign he'd guessed correctly, that Sydney had seduced Sark just as far as she'd needed to in order to get him under her thumb. Like so many other men, so many other missions. As long as Arvin was content being far from the truth, their secret was safe.

Still practically glowing with superiority, Sloane stopped without warning. "Here we are."

The door was so easily camouflaged by the shadows and texture of the architecture around it (such as it was) that no one was likely to notice it unless they looked. Then again, even if they did notice, no would-be intruder would get past the lengthy passcode Arvin was currently punching into a hidden keypad. When the locking mechanism released, the two men slipped smoothly through the entrance and shut the door behind them.

The building smelled of dust and old rusting metal, and in the dim corridor they entered only the slightest hints of cologne and plastic signaled a recent human presence. From somewhere deeper within the forgotten structure, there was the faint, unmistakable hum of activity. The bulk of the operation would naturally take place further within, where no lights or noise would draw the attention of curious passersby.

It wasn't that much warmer indoors, but Sark could feel his skin flushing at the change in temperature nonetheless. He tugged off his scarf and turned to face Sloane. The time for pleasantries and posturing was over. "Perhaps it's time you gave me some idea of what it is you're doing," he suggested, trying not to sound testy.

"I'm looking for someone," replied Sloane, almost dismissively. From the moment they entered it seemed his attention had been caught by those indistinguishable sounds echoing gently through the halls; he turned back to the younger man as if Sark no longer mattered. "For now, that is all you need to know."

"You'll forgive the impertinence," Sark said, though he couldn't care less, "but I believe I'll need to know a great deal more if I'm to be of assistance."

"No. You won't." Sloane raised his chin slightly as he stared at the taller man. "You've been called in to help with preparations. The Passenger is none of your concern."

"The—"

"What I need you to do is oversee the procurement of certain materials," said Arvin, as if Sark had never opened his mouth. "There is a former Soviet laboratory in Novgorod with materials we'll need. Hire only operatives you know can be trusted, and keep me advised of any complications."

"And what sort of materials, if I might ask?"

"A chemical compound, in liquid form. It should be green."

He hadn't said it, but he had that gleam in his eye that only meant one thing, and Sark knew. Arvin would never change, no matter how many people he killed.

"It's Rambaldi, isn't it," he surmised. It was difficult to keep his expression neutral, though he almost managed. "Typical."

Sloane's eyes were a fairly deep brown, but their expression now was positively icy. "Listen to me, Julian. I understand that you have little respect for Rambaldi and his followers. The way you looked at Irina and I as we sought to construct Il Dire — did you think I never noticed? Now, you may have the luxury of writing off his works as the ramblings of a madman, but for me…" His jaw clenched. "For me, it is personal. Make the necessary preparations. And hold your tongue."

Before Sark could immediately disobey by saying something ill-advised and mocking, Sloane turned on his heel and walked away.

He soon disappeared into a door further down the corridor, leaving Sark to wonder who among his widespread underworld acquaintances could be relied upon to break into a Russian military lab with minimal fuss. Preferably someone who could assemble a reliable team on short notice . . .

When the idea arrived, a tiny smile tugged at his lips.

This might end up being an entertaining assignment after all.

**Melbourne**

"What do you mean I can't turn here?" Quint shouted at an innocent traffic sign. "Fuck you, you fucking—"

"Just pull over," said Sydney, trying to sound authoritative and soothing at the same time and probably failing at both. "Just pull over and park, okay, and we'll walk."

It was one thing to get yourself into car chases and drive like a lunatic, but somehow it was always more terrifying from the passenger seat. Which is what she told herself when Quint's abrupt swerve into a tiny-looking parallel parking spot made her flinch and squeeze her eyes tightly shut.

"Right," he said cheerfully as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "I'm all turned around, where are we supposed to be?"

Rather than answer, Sydney just got out of the car and began walking in the appropriate direction, trusting that he wouldn't be far behind. He was like a duckling that way. A very large, foul-mouthed duckling. Sure enough, she'd only made it a few yards before he fell into step beside her, grabbing her hand and swinging it energetically between them. "Isn't this beautiful, honey?"

"Gorgeous," she agreed, and managed to give him a sugary smile while conveying with her eyes that she just might kill him.

Larson just shrugged. "Gotta blend in," he murmured sotto voce. Then: "Oh, _look_, sweetie! Flinders Street Station!"

She dredged up some enthusiasm, because it wasn't his fault; they were supposed to be a couple of American tourists on their honeymoon. In a crowded city like this, the best way to blend in was to be as casual as possible, and while she didn't think that had to involve Quint bobbing his head to the techno music coming out of someone's car, she could live wth it. Anyone keeping an eye out for agents would probably look right past the 'fly moves of Q-Lar,' as he'd once described them. (She'd gagged.)

They turned right from Flinders Street itself, toward the café Lisenker had designated as their meeting spot. Even his specifications for the meet made him sound flighty— they were to sit out in the open, the announcement on their table, and if the man even suspected a double-cross he'd disappear and never contact them again. The operation was frustratingly open to failure, but they needed as much information on the Covenant as they could possibly get. Most of what Sark was told was still on a need-to-know basis, and between Senator Reed's constant appeals to the courts and her own stubbornness, Lauren had given them next to nothing.

Sydney's jaw tightened at the mere thought. Certainly she would be more than happy to see the bitch die, but that was almost beside the point compared to what Vaughn was going through. Rather than the swift death penalty verdict they'd expected, the process seemed likely to drag out for at least a year if Senator Reed could help it.

These days Vaughn walked through the Rotunda office like a ghost. They all worried, especially Weiss, but no one knew what to do. Sydney remembered the look in Vaughn's eyes when he found out, when he said he wanted nothing more than to kill his own wife. If he snapped—

"Stay with me, honey." As Quint's hand tightening around hers brought Sydney back to reality, she noticed her partner watching her with poorly concealed concern.

She flashed a broad, dimpled smile. "Sorry, love, just daydreaming."

"'Love'? he teased her with a look of relief. "What are you, a character in Sweeney Todd?"

_My last two lovers have been British, what do you want from me?_ She tucked a few strands of blonde wig behind her ear. "Pretty much. You're lucky I'm not bursting into song right now. Or baking you into a pie."

"Oh, trust me, I am counting my blessings."

Rather than respond, Sydney looked across the street while they waited for the crosswalk to let them pass. "There," she said, pointing. "Third from the left. Oh, doesn't it look _nice?_" she gushed, wondering why she always seemed to dredge up a southern accent when she tried to be a silly blonde.

"Just like I always dreamed it would be," Quint deadpanned.

The outdoor sign near the entrance to Brunetti instructed them to seat themselves, so they chose a table in plain sight of anyone on the street and settled in with Quint seated on Sydney's right. "Thank god," he muttered. "I'm fucking starving."

"Watch your manners, dear," Sydney told him sweetly. In a more normal tone, she added, "You're a black hole. What about those sandwiches at the airport?"

"We had to get our connecting flight before I could finish them!"

"There were _seven_ of them, La— darling. Seven. You—"

"Hi, how're you going?" a waitress chirruped on Sydney's left. "Can I get you anything to eat or drink?"

"Just coffee, please," she requested, glancing up and giving the girl a perfunctory smile.

"You have cake, right?" asked Quint, leaning forward eagerly.

"Yes, we've got—"

"Oh, just get me your favorite," he interrupted with a wink. Their waitress blushed a little and went back inside to get their orders.

Sydney turned to her partner and raised a stern eyebrow. "Remember how we're on our honeymoon?"

"I'm a terrible husband," he said, unrepentant.

"I'll say."

Quint's forehead creased with annoyance, which was rare. "Give me a break, okay. We've got to keep our eyes open, and a waitress who blushes over a tiny bit of flirting probably isn't going to put a bullet in our heads. Better safe than sorry."

"She was unarmed," Sydney shot back, just managing not to roll her eyes. "She had a cell phone and two spare pens in her pockets, and no wires. Just from the way she's walking I can tell she hasn't got a shoulder holster, and the clothes she's wearing would cling too much to have a gun or a knife strapped anywhere."

Her partner's eyebrows had climbed to an improbable height. "You are smart like a freak."

"I've been doing this for a long time."

"I'll say," Quint scoffed. "Old lady."

"Idiot," she replied idly, scanning the café's other patrons for suspicious activity.

"Lisenker. He's here." In the blink of an eye they were all professionalism, despite the fact that Larson still slouched carelessly in his chair and Sydney did nothing more than adjust her sunglasses. Of course, the glasses just so happened to be descendants of Marshall's 'super-swank' model, and they would not only make a positive ID but would ensure that Lisenker wasn't bugged— with or without his knowledge. Most importantly, they were still super swank.

She was too well-trained to turn around, so she didn't see Lisenker until he dropped into the seat next to her, eyeing the prearranged sign of sugar cubes she'd 'accidentally' spilled. He was middle-aged and unshaven, with that nervous look people often got when they could never be sure they weren't about to die.

"Hey there," said Quint. "Good to see you."

"I do not like this place," Lisenker told them anxiously, in lieu of a greeting. "It is too out in open."

Sydney couldn't quite place his accent, but that wasn't what she needed to be concerned with. After a few seconds the sunglasses' built-in screen that she had to practically cross her eyes to see had told her all she needed to know. This was their guy, and he was clean.

"Safer that way," she said, nodding almost imperceptibly to Larson. "Besides, you're the one who picked it."

"We'll get you out of here as soon as we can," Quint promised. "Cake?"

The waitress came up behind Lisenker, which naturally made him jump several inches in the air. "Sorry about that," the girl said easily, passing out Quint's very chocolatey-looking cake and Sydney's miraculously unspilled tea. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, please, I am fine."

By the time Sydney had assured him that they were really CIA agents, her partner was on his second piece of cake and her tea was getting cold. Lisenker veered from bouts of irrational nervousness to attempts to discuss the Covenant's plans in public, neither of which did much for Sydney's temper.

They only stayed long enough to make it look as if they'd really come for the food. Luckily for Lisenker's nerves, Quint dispatched the cake with his customary gusto, and before he could do anything deeply unprofessional like lick frosting from the plate, Sydney looked at her watch. "Oh gosh, the time!" she exclaimed a little more loudly than she had to. Her partner immediately laced his fingers together and looked at her like a guilty puppy. "We better go, or we'll be late."

"Right you are, sweetheart," Larson agreed quickly, running a hand over his mouth in lieu of a napkin.

It was a little like babysitting, being his partner, Sydney mused as she reached over to wipe off a bit of chocolate that had somehow landed near his eye.

When she made the mistake of reminding Quint to get Australian Doritos before they left, prompting him to throw his arms around her and then all but run to the airport's nearest food vendor, she changed her mind. It was, in fact, a _lot_ like babysitting.

Lisenker finally calmed down when they were on the plane. He actually seemed to strike up a decent conversation with Quint about America and television and—unless she'd heard incorrectly—Gloria Estefan. Full of pep, or something like that. As long as the boys were going to behave, Sydney didn't particularly care. She was ready to leave them to their own devices, and all the traveling had her struggling to stay awake.

Sydney fell asleep in her seat and dreamed of Vaughn and fire and endless red desert, but when she woke up she didn't remember any of it.

**Los Angeles**

"Sydney. Come on in."

The warmth in Director Dixon's voice when he spoke to her was a reminder of when they'd been partners, and it made her smile. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes. I know you've just landed, but we're going to have to send you out again sooner than expected." He jotted down one final note in the file on his desk before closing the folder and giving her his full attention.

This time her smile was rueful. "No rest for the weary, I guess. Is this about the Covenant again?"

"Isn't it always. Sark contacted us while you were gone. He's been tasked by Sloane to oversee the retrieval of materials from an old Soviet bunker in Novgorod."

"So you're sending me in?"

"Well, it's not quite that simple," Dixon admitted. "You'll be joining a mercenary team; Sark seems to believe you'll have no trouble gaining their trust." At those words, which sounded suspiciously like a direct quote, he raised his eyebrows slightly at Sydney, and she just knew.

Oh.

Oh, of _course_ he would.

She was going to kill Julian Sark, slowly and painfully.

"He's hiring Simon Walker," she said flatly, nodding her head to keep from breaking something. "Of course. So I take it I'm going in as Julia."

"That's the plan. Sydney, until we know more about what Sloane is planning we can't risk exposure. Find out whatever you can about what's going on, but don't try to cross Walker or any of the others. Not yet. It's still too dangerous. Now, go home and get whatever you need for the trip—"

_Like a blunt object so I can beat Sark to a pulp?_

"—and when you get back, we'll contact Walker and arrange for you to join the team. Wheels up as soon as possible."

Sydney nodded her assent and started for the door, only to stop halfway. There was something… off. She couldn't quite place it, and she'd been trying to ignore it, but after so many years in the field she had learned to trust her instincts. "It's pretty empty out there," she commented, turning halfway to study Dixon's face. "I didn't see Vaughn or Weiss. Or my father, for that matter."

"On other assignments," he replied, quick and smooth. "I don't have to tell _you_ how busy this week has been."

"Right. I'll be back as soon as I can," she promised. There was no point in pressing further when she had a job to do.

But Dixon was lying, and she wanted to know why.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> All I want is for Syd and Sark to cuddle, and the stupid plot keeps getting in the way. Sigh. It was more fun when the plot involved them being together 24/7.

In other news, I have the best readers ever. And Rivalita now has over 30,000 hits? WHAT? I could not possibly love you guys any more. Your reviews encourage me and fill me with boundless joy. Like when Sark shows up in "Bob" with his American accent. That much joy. Be impressed with yourselves.


	3. Chapter 3

**III. This Is the Best Day Ever**

_You can't brace yourself when the time comes;  
><em>_you just have to roll with the blast._

Within the hour she was back in Dixon's office, using one of their secure lines to call her way through to Simon's private cell phone. Luckily, all the re-routers and codes he used for his contact protocol seemed to have remained the same. She leaned against one of the sofas and waited for three rings before he picked up.

"Yeh?" he answered in the usual distracted, amiable tone. He'd never been a big believer in caller ID.

Sydney almost smiled. She could just picture him, sprawled out on a couch in some corner of the world with a bottle of scotch, dressed like some kind of British GQ model turned rogue. "Hello, Simon," she said calmly, trying to ignore Dixon's watchful eyes. "It's been a while."

"Julia! It's been _ages_, where the hell'a you been?" She could hear the smile on his face. He'd always been that way— enthusiastic, cheerful, capable. And ready to rain down hell the moment he was crossed.

"Oh, had to lay low for a while. You always said I'd kill the wrong one someday."

A low chuckle came through the line, and Dixon's presence began to feel entirely inappropriate. "That I did."

"Missed you," she told him. It didn't quite feel like a lie. "I heard you're putting a team together."

"Yeah, y'heard right. Don't know if it's anything you'd be interested in, though."

Sydney realized she was twirling a piece of hair around her finger, a mannerism she'd created specifically for Julia. Ah well. She had to be in character, and every little bit helped. Her tone was teasing when she replied. "Oh I don't know. I could use a little excitement in my life."

"We _could_ use a little help with our entrance. Don't you speak Russian? Along with every other bloody language…"

Her cue for a light, breezy laugh. "You flatter me. But in this case . . . I think I could be just what you need."

"Aren't you always."

And just like that, she was in. They made the arrangements for the meet and said their goodbyes.

It would have made sense for Dixon to be paying close attention to her conversation, but when she finally closed the phone and looked up it was clear he was distracted. And she knew that as director it was his prerogative to dispense classified information as he saw fit— and as an agent, it was her job to prioritize and concern herself with the assignment at hand— but _goddammit._ "I'm going to Estonia," she said sharply.

Dixon nodded. "Good. We'll have to send you in with minimal op-tech. I'm afraid Sark will be your primary back-up."

"That won't be a problem." Her jaw was set in annoyance, but before she could ask he interrupted.

"Syd," he warned, his dark eyes fixing her in place, "not now."

"Dixon, h—"

"Not. Now."

There was nothing she could do. Even if he weren't her superior, the hypocrisy of criticizing Dixon for keeping secrets would have stuck in Sydney's throat. She could still see him standing in the blazing heat of the oil field as his world crumbled around him. As he begged for it not to be true. She owed him this.

On her way out of the Rotunda, she called her father. To check in before leaving, she told him, but he just said '_I'm fine, Sydney'_ in that knowing voice.

When she got back, she swore she would get to the bottom of this. For now, she had another flight to catch.

**Galway**

It was strange to return, after all these months, to the place where Sark had held her prisoner. It was strange to arrive as a guest, in broad daylight and of her own volition, to be able to admire the lush green lawns as the sun rose over Ireland. To see that house, modest and beautiful and secretly a fortress.

Sydney had lost nearly two entire days flying east at this point, but she had another thirty-six hours before her meet with Simon in Vaivara. He was still in the process of contacting his usual team—at least, the team that had become usual after he stopped working closely with Julia Thorne. With any luck, the familiarity of her and a Covenant assignment would encourage him to set aside any more pesky questions about where, precisely, she'd been.

Bits of loose gravel crunched beneath her feet, and in her peripheral vision Sydney could see the gate quietly locking itself behind her. She knew she would find Sark standing in the main doorway, but the sight of him still quickened her pulse beneath the dull exhaustion.

"Hey, stranger," she called out with what she strongly suspected was a loopy grin.

In the soft golden light of dawn, Sark's eyes were the palest of greys. "Good morning," he replied. He reached out a hand and drew Sydney in by her elbow, tugging gently until she was close enough to kiss. She reciprocated slowly, lazily, with a bone-deep sense of relief that she hoped wasn't too obvious. It had been almost a month since they'd had any real time alone. A month of anxious waiting and time spent concocting worst-case scenarios whenever his check-ins were a few minutes late.

Even so, she had to pause when they went inside. She took in the unchanged kitchen and dining table to the left, the living room and library to the right, and the stairs to the second floor as if they were all old friends. Ahead, of course, lay the hallway to Sark's bedroom, but there would be plenty of time to look at _that._

Sark saw what she was doing and smiled slightly. "Welcome home," he murmured in a voice that was almost teasing.

And Sydney knew it wasn't home, that it never had been and she had no reason to think of it fondly, but _god_ she wanted those words to be real. The rawness of the desire startled her, and for a moment all she could think of was someday, some place that could be theirs, together, and no one else's.

Rather than speak, she reached to the side and took Sark's hand, interlacing their fingers with ease.

"Good to be back," Sydney replied when she knew her voice could be light and steady.

"If you'd like to sleep, you'll find the room upstairs prepared for you," he said, because now he _was_ teasing her outright, and because somehow he still had that almost shy gentlemanly streak that she couldn't make heads or tails of. Sydney just turned to face him and gave him a look.

"I slept on the plane." Not well, and not enough, but it would have to do.

Sark followed her to the bedroom. She toed off her shoes and socks just inside the door; pulled down her jeans and kicked them away; peeled off her sweater, shirt and camisole with one quick motion. The smooth wood panelling was cool beneath her feet, and she stood there feeling as if more than just the weight of clothing had been removed from her shoulders. Before Sark could do more than unbutton and shrug out of his expensive shirt, she was upon him.

His belt buckle made a cold indentation on the pale skin of her abdomen. Traveling destroyed her appetite, and in the past few weeks she'd lost weight that she didn't have to spare. She knew he felt it, could feel his fingers assessing the gaunt bones of her hips and shoulders even as they kissed.

"Sydney. I need you to take care of yourself." The heat in his voice was borne of frustration. She shuddered and pressed closer anyway.

"I will. I will." His pants dropped cooperatively once unfastened, and his steps out of them brought them closer to the bed.

It was almost like vertigo, falling back onto that mattress. Like falling into the past. As if she had to consciously make space among the memories for the here, the now, the warm press of Sark's body without the power play of captor and captive. Because they'd put that behind them. Right?

"I love you," she whispered, and her strange labyrinth of thoughts melted away. _Here. Here I am._

Sark buried his face against her throat and moaned. Desperate, hopeless, helpless. He never said it but she had always known. If it wasn't quite love, it would be cruel to ask for more. She had everything he could give, and she supposed that was more than he'd want to give if he had the choice.

She flipped their positions, bracing herself with her hands on his shoulders. Tonight there didn't need to be anything more than the heat of him below and inside her, the quiet stuttering gasps of their breath. Tonight it was only them, together. Tomorrow be damned.

* * *

><p>When Sydney joined him in the kitchen the next day, Sark gave her an appraising look. "Julia. Good morning."<p>

She acknowledged the observation with a small smile. He could never tell how much of the transformation was consciously done, but the differences were always palpable if one knew what to look for. The slight swagger, the intensity of her gaze, the propensity for wearing leather— it was all part of Julia Thorne. And he knew that fully inhabiting her alias was the best way to avoid raising Simon Walker's suspicions. Still . . .

He found himself missing the real, honest Sydney, the woman who liked comfortable clothing and rarely wore this much eyeliner. Normally Sark was intrigued by Julia, but the strain of separation was beginning to settle inside him like an odd dull ache. Even now, together, each moment was harshly delineated by deadlines and schedules and meeting times. _Promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep_. Exhaustion had to be setting in if he was quoting third-rate American poets.

Then Sydney smiled more widely, and the façade of Julia crumbled. "You're in big trouble, by the way."

"Am I. And what is my crime?"

She shook her head and set about the task of pouring herself some coffee. "I can't believe you thought it would be a good idea to hire Simon."

"I have no doubt he'll perform admirably."

Either her sense of humor had improved, or she was getting better at realizing he was teasing. "That is not the point," she said, grinning again. The day and night spent together had done wonders for both of their spirits, and Sydney looked far healthier after spending twenty-four hours in the same place.

Before Sark could make further inquiry as to what, precisely, the point was, she leaned over and kissed him. Having taken care of that, Sydney leaned back against the counter facing him and wrapped her long fingers around her mug. "The problem," she continued, "is that Simon is going to expect a lot more than some help getting into the facility. And the last thing I want is to be in a room with both of you at the same time."

"Noted," said Sark, and gave her a look just suggestive enough to make her laugh and shake her head. "Sydney, seeing you re-establish your relations with Walker for the purpose of maintaining an alias is hardly likely to send me into a jealous rage. In fact—" he hesitated "—you might say it would address a certain proclivity of mine."

"And here I thought we 'addressed' all of those already."

This seemed adequate excuse for another kiss, so he tugged her closer and gave up smirking to more fully experience the softness of her lips against his. He thought that this house would always be theirs, even if they never truly lived in it: an oasis of isolated happiness from which memories of her had become inextricable.

"So you like to watch," she mused once she'd stepped back and perched on one of the other stools.

Sark raised his eyebrows. "Are you surprised?"

"No," she admitted, with another _you are hopeless_ sort of smile, "not really."

"Good. I'd start to wonder if you really know me at all."

There was a look in Sydney's eyes, precious for its rarity, in the moments when he made an effort to let his guards down. And it was an effort, make no mistake; Sark had not made friendly, 'normal' conversation since he was a teenager. But now, when he did, there was that expression on her face — happiness, acceptance and something like pride — like a flare in the darkness. "I'm getting to," she said, and her voice was like an embrace.

"On an unrelated subject," said Sark, standing up and retrieving a few slices of bread, "and at the risk of sounding like McKenas Cole, I must admit I enjoy what you've done with your hair. But I thought Julia Thorne was a blonde."

Sydney shrugged. "She was. But I'm not going to bleach my hair again, and for a mission like this extensions will be easier than a wig." She carded her fingers idly through some of her nearly waist-length hair as she spoke. Sark, unfamiliar with the intricacies of female disguises, decided to simply take her word for it.

They remained in what he assumed was a companionable silence while the bread toasted, and only once Sark had placed toast, butter and jam on the counter and resumed his seat did he discover evidence to the contrary.

He looked across the counter and saw that Sydney had frozen, butter knife in hand, staring down at her plate without seeing it.

"Something's wrong," she blurted out. "Something Dixon isn't telling me."

It startled him a little, though it probably shouldn't have. Sydney tried not to internalize every issue — a wise decision, given her career — and her number of available confidants had hit an all-time low. It was simply difficult to relate. Sark had been internalizing for more than twenty years and believed it had served him quite well so far.

"Are you sure about his?" he asked. It seemed odd for Director Dixon to withhold from Sydney, given their history together. Unless, perhaps…

"I think it might be something to do with Vaughn," said Sydney, echoing his own suspicions. "I don't know, maybe he's being investigated again by the NSC."

Sark considered this for a moment. "From what I know of Michael Vaughn, he seems an unlikely suspect for conspiracy and treason."

"Try telling that to Lauren's father," she said with a humorless smile. "Ever since she was caught he's been obsessed with finding some way to prove her innocence, and with the ear of the President he's got enough influence to make all our lives miserable. Between Senator Reed and Robert Lindsay . . ."

He reached over and took her free hand. "Perhaps this isn't the best time to concern yourself."

There was the slightest upward twitch of her lips — a frequent response of Sydney's when he showed concern. Quickly repressed disbelief and amusement. Purely unintentional, he was sure, but whenever Julian started to believe that she really did love him, that reflex was what haunted him.

She was nodding nevertheless, albeit with some reluctance. "Right." She glanced up at the clock. "I should be going. My flight leaves soon."

Her bag, left almost entirely untouched since her arrival, had been efficiently repacked and was waiting in the entrance hall. After wolfing down her toast with a look that suggested it was for Sark's benefit, Sydney stood and placed one last, lingering kiss on his lips.

"See you in Estonia," she said quietly, and was gone.

**Vaivara Parish**

Not every location came stocked with conveniently empty warehouses or dimly lit storage facilities, so Sydney was meeting Simon in a small country cottage in the Ida-Viru county of Estonia. It was quite lovely, actually, though typical February weather had coated the forest clearings with a layer of frost unmelted by that day's sunlight. The fog of her breath was just visible in the afternoon air, and as she walked toward her destination she saw a few hopeful early flowers crystallized in ice.

The cottage was quaint in an almost storybook way, neatly landscaped and resting beneath the long bare branches of maple trees. She didn't look for the surveillance equipment as she approached the front door, but she knew it would be there. If Simon hadn't cleared her for entry, she had no doubt that she would have been dead before she got anywhere near the house. With that in mind, it seemed silly to bother knocking.

Simon was standing in the foyer, arms patiently crossed, wearing one of those berets he loved so much and a great deal of black.

"Here I am," she murmured, shrugging out of her coat and leaving it with its brethren on the rack. She gave Simon a sideways smirk. "Miss me?"

He grinned and moved casually into her personal space, because they'd never had a lot of boundaries with each other. Other than the emotional ones.

"Julia," he greeted her, slipping his hands onto her hips, and leaned in for a kiss.

It was like a reminder, that kiss. _Oh yes, hello, we were quite good together, weren't we?_ And it was a bit of a shame, she thought, to have false pretenses between them when she was genuinely glad to see him again. Especially now, before Sark arrived to complicate things even further.

She broke the contact by pulling back her chin, resting their foreheads together. "Simon," she replied, and was sure to sound slightly breathless.

"Hn. Y'even changed your hair," he observed. "Did get yourself into some trouble, didn't you?"

Julia shrugged carelessly. "Better safe than sorry and all that." The smile they shared spoke of many past actions to the contrary.

"C'mon." Simon grabbed the crook of her elbow and steered her deeper into the house. "Want you to meet the team."

'The team' was familiar to her, but she smoothly projected the air of a woman who'd never heard of these men and didn't particularly care to meet them now. Javier Perez, Laszlo Bogden and Avery Russett were all introduced to her in turn. Perez, the Cuban arms dealer, looked even less excited to see Julia than she was to meet him.

"When's the meet?" she asked when pleasantries had been dispensed with.

"Our employer's representative will arrive this evening at seven," said Bogden, the grey-haired man in charge of security.

"And until then?"

Javier glowered. "We _wait._"

"And we plan," Russett interjected smoothly, his eyes flicking back and forth between their matching glares. "Simon, I've got the gear you asked for . . ."

Sydney, who'd been disliked by far bigger fish than Javier Perez, didn't particularly care what he thought so long as Simon was on her side. So she and the others settled in around the dining room table with an assortment of maps, blueprints, and equipment, preparing to infiltrate Novgorod 21 in less than forty-eight hours.

* * *

><p>The doorbell rang at exactly seven o'clock and Sydney had to work very hard not to roll her eyes. There was precision, and then there was showing off.<p>

She lingered at the table, where they had been watching Sark's approach on the security feed and (in the case of Bogden and Russett) throwing out a few comments about pretty-boy rich kids who thought they could run things. She'd snickered at that and got an appreciative glance from Russett. At least they didn't all hate her.

Simon was the one who answered the door, and his voice projected through the little cottage. "Evenin', sir. Cold night?"

"No colder than usual," Sark's voice replied. "I must say," he added, like an afterthought, "I'm not sure security protocols are necessary in an area like this."

"Well, y'know, can't be too careful, can you."

"I'm sure my employers would appreciate the caution." There was a brief silence, and Sydney imagined him offering a handshake. "Julian Sark."

"Ah, yeah! Yeah, I heard a' you. You can just put it over there on the rack wi'the others."

"Mr. Walker, I believe you've worked for the Covenant before?"

"Right. Someone here you should meet, I guess— Julia, c'mere for a minute?"

As she stood up reluctantly, she saw Javier's eyes narrow. "Why her?" he growled to no one in particular.

Russett grinned and jerked a thumb in her direction. "She's the prettiest."

"And one of the Covenant's best assassins." Bogden spoke quietly and didn't even look up from the lens he was polishing. "You two should really pay more attention," he sighed at the mute stares of his colleagues. "When I first saw her coming up the path I thought we were all dead."

Interesting.

Sydney left them to it. A little gossip about her old reputation could hardly hurt the mission at hand. She stalked out to the foyer with the expression of someone who really did not have time for this, stopped next to Simon and crossed her arms over her chest. "What?" she demanded, jutting out her chin.

"Mister Sark, meet Julia Thorne. I s'pose you've heard of'er."

"Naturally," Sark replied, casting a critical glance over her clothing. "Miss Thorne, your reputation precedes you. I've been told you've served our cause admirably . . . if not consistently."

Sydney felt her jaw twitch slightly in irritation, because really? _This_ was how he wanted to play it?

"The Covenant wants _me_ for more than my inheritance, Mister Sark," she tossed out while ostensibly inspecting her fingernails. "I guess that makes it a little more important to keep me out of harm's way." Simon, in her peripheral vision, was laughing behind his hand; he'd always enjoyed her careless insubordination.

Sark's eyebrows rose. Half-annoyed, half-entertained. "Is she always this pleasant?"

"That's my girl," Simon answered, pulling her against him for a deep, forceful kiss. It was more of a display of possession than anything else, as he had a tendency to get into pissing contests with men who had some kind of authority over him. Given the greater nature of Sydney's fraud, she wasn't going to complain.

Though she was certainly tempted, with the way Sark's eyes seemed to be burning a hole straight through her.

Looking at them, Julian was struck once again by just how _good_ Sydney Bristow could be. It was all there: the desire, the exasperation with Walker's juvenile display and the complete disregard for what anyone else might think of the display. Only one of which, he suspected, she actually felt.

Sydney hadn't quite gotten it right. It wasn't simply that he liked to watch — nothing so common as that. It was watching the exquisitely executed deception as her hands framed another man's face, the conspiracy of witnessing a false seduction, the careless certainty that she felt nothing. It was feeling his complicity in her lie, the faint echoes of her heat on his body even as he saw a counterfeit of the same kind of passion.

And yes. This was satisfying that particular proclivity quite nicely.

She drew back first, casting a lazy glance in his direction and wiping carelessly at her lips. "I'll leave you two alone," she said in a husky voice that Sark suspected had the same effect on them both. "You probably have things to take care of. Mister Sark." She nodded her farewell. "Simon."

They watched her strut back into the room she'd come from. When Simon turned to look at him again, completely smug, Sark forced a bored, impatient tone.

"If you're quite finished, there are some last-minute details I'd like to go over with your team."

He ended up addressing most of his instructions to Javier Perez, the resident tactical expert who looked at Julia as if she were a virulent plague. Halfway through their discussion, Sydney and Simon left the room. Sark wondered, in a rare lapse into vulgarity, if she was going to fuck him.

He wondered if they'd be able to hear it.

**Novgorod**

They left Vaivara the next day, packing the stolen military vehicle with all their gear while the morning's frost crackled under their feet. One of the last things they brought from the house was a thermos of coffee large enough to be passed between the whole team— the old van's heater barely worked, and they were still waking up.

Sark had left around nine o'clock the night before, leaving behind some extra equipment and what scraps of intelligence the Covenant had been able to gather about this particular bunker. Apparently it had been primarily used as a laboratory, though whatever experiments had been conducted were abandoned by the new Russian government in the early 90s. They were counting on the military's current lack of interest to make their task easier.

After long hours of driving on a carefully selected string of back roads, they arrived at Novgorod 21 by late afternoon. With the short winter days, the sun was already beginning to set. Sydney traded with Russett to take the driver's seat and drove smoothly to the entrance checkpoint.

The bunker's security was fairly minimal, all things considered—nothing some fake identification and Sydney's excellent Russian accent couldn't handle. When the guard appeared to hesitate, she did her best to imply he was an idiot farmboy with a few well-placed sighs and drawn-out Muscovite vowels. He let them through.

As she pulled up next to the building they needed, Simon was torn between laughing at her performance and a tremendous need to gloat. "What did I tell you?" he asked Javier in a victorious almost-whisper. "She's fuckin' brilliant."

Perez just glared at him and growled, "Job's not finished," and at any rate none of Julia's purported brilliance was necessary to get them into the laboratory. The bunker was more deserted than they'd dared hope, and just as empty of surveillance equipment as Bogden's reconnaissance had indicated.

The color of the liquid they were after was also helpful. Sydney had encountered a lot of nasty chemical compounds with SD-6 and the CIA (her mind helpfully supplied the deadly chemicals sprayed on her by Sark) but none that she recalled had such an intense green color. She tried to come up with some idea of the ingredients necessary to give it that striking appearance, but she'd studied literature, not chemistry. Perhaps Marshall would have a theory.

She and Simon opened the empty cases Sark had given them for this specific purpose and made short work of loading up the vials. Halfway through, they heard the distinct sound of silenced gunfire in the corridor and Perez stepped back into the room. "Guards on patrol," he said shortly. "Dead."

After that, he and Bogden actually seemed more at ease—when men with their experience encountered no resistance at all, they immediately suspected a trap.

Then the vials were packed, and they were getting ready to leave the lab when a few dusty VHS tapes on another shelf caught Sydney's eye. She wondered if there was anything useful on them, anything that could help the CIA figure out what Sloane and the Covenant were after. Maybe if the others were distracted—

"Problem, Miss Thorne?"

It was a tempting thought, but futile. She wasn't going to get away with anything under the watchful, suspicious eye of Javier Perez.

But that didn't mean she felt the need to explain herself. She easily caught up with Simon in a few long strides, not sparing Perez so much as a glance. She knew his type, and as long as she did nothing (beyond the crime of existing) to provoke him, there would be no reason to worry. He had prejudices, but not a speck of evidence.

They moved swiftly and silently from the building, and had they not been professionals they would have been half-giddy with the ease of their success. As it was, even they were less on their guard than they might have been. Javier and Laszlo scanned every corridor for signs of movement or active surveillance, but no one noticed the sharp dark eyes watching them from a cracked office doorframe. No one saw the figure withdraw, and draw a cell phone from her pocket.

"Это я," she murmured. "Они его взял. И должна знать . . . Сидней здесь была."

_It's me. They took it. And you should know . . . Sydney was here._

**Seville**

The team went to one of Simon's usual haunts in Spain, and after a night of exhausted sleep they were packing up and preparing to go their separate ways.

Sark had come by earlier in the day to retrieve the cases of green fluid and deliver their payment — enough cash to make even the most inquisitive of hired thieves forget their curiosity. In the case of Simon and his team, who were far too good to ask questions, it was almost insulting; but they hadn't risen to the top of their business by making a fuss about overpayment. Between the perfectly executed operation and the expensive bottle of wine they gave Sark in the hopes of being overpaid again someday, it seemed that Simon and Sark were on their way to getting along famously.

Sydney made herself relatively scarce during the transaction. It was professional paranoia, she knew, and something she should have outgrown, but she couldn't shake the feeling that Simon was paying too much attention to her and Sark when they were all in the same room, and she had no interest in inviting that particular disaster.

She had just finished putting together her minimal gear and was checking the place for any items she might have forgotten when Simon called her into what he called the sitting room. It had the furniture for it, admittedly; the place was just too damn big to have rooms like a normal house.

"Julia," he said from his relaxed position on the chaise lounge. "Wanted to talk t' you, if you got a minute."

"About what?" she asked, perfectly demure, settling in next to him with her legs across his. The position brought their heads close, as she'd intended, and Simon was all too willing to close the slight gap between them and kiss her. But when he pulled back, the look on his face was more speculative than lustful.

"How long've you been shackin' up with Mr. Sark?"

The bottom dropped out of Sydney's stomach, and for a moment that stretched on for far too long she could only gape at Simon like an idiot.

Apparently it hadn't been professional paranoia after all.

He grinned. He'd always enjoyed moments when he managed to get the drop on her. "Oh, come on, love," he chided, nudging her shoulder with one hand in a very self-satisfied way. "You're good — you're very, very good — but I know you. I could see it in your eyes, couldn' I?"

"If anyone could, it'd be you," she admitted, sagging back into the chaise.

"'f'it's any consolation, you're better than he is." When she gave him a look that probably expressed more than a little disbelief, he cocked an eyebrow at her. "Couldn't take his eyes off you for a second, could'e?" Simon teased, clearly enjoying her discomposure. "Are you blushing?"

"All right, all right," she sighed, gesturing her surrender. "I'm sleeping with him."

"Could'a just told me, you know."

Oh. Well, when he put it that way, it just seemed stupid. But as mixed as Sydney's feelings were about her past relationship with Simon, she really had liked him on some level. Cared about him, even. It just hadn't seem right, to flaunt her connection to Sark. "I— I didn't want you to think . . . ."

He shot her a look. "Touched, love," he assured her with a smile, "but I'm really not that sensitive."

"Right," she nodded, and tried not to laugh. _Apparently my days of sleeping with sensitive men are long behind me._

"I reckon you'll be headin' out soon, then?"

"Mm, in about an hour." Simon poured himself half a glass of scotch and raised his eyebrows, but she held up a hand; it was too early for alcohol.

"Suit yourself," he said cheerfully, and knocked back most of it with a single swallow. "We should do this again sometime."

There was just something about Simon, Sydney thought as she grinned at him. Something about these missions with their precision planning and careful clockwork execution — it was the closest thing she had to fun these days. Or maybe she just liked the hair extensions. "We should," she agreed.

But not right away. Now it was time to go home and have her questions answered, and nothing was going to stand in her way.

Twenty hours later Sydney found herself wishing she'd stayed in Europe.

Or possibly never joined the CIA at all.

x

**Los Angeles**

"He _what._"

Dixon only watched her silently, well aware that she'd heard what he said. Her problem was that she couldn't believe it. Absolutely. Could not.

This wasn't happening, because things like this _did not happen_, not with someone like Vaughn, someone who—

_burned his house down, and now he and Lauren have disappeared._

"Why?" she demanded. "Why would Vaughn do something like that?"

Her father and Dixon began to give her more information in a duet, in stereo, in a bombardment from all sides. _Erratic behavior. Overestimated stability. Thought work would give him something _(how did they not understand this was impossible?)_ the betrayal. No leads. No trail. No trace. Gone._

"He, he could have been forced to do it." Her tongue felt heavy; every word was a struggle. "Coerced. We can't prove—"

"No," said Jack, "we can't _prove_ anything, but Sydney— you need to understand. This does not look good."

Understand? He needed her to _understand?_ There was no way to understand this. This was every solid ground she'd ever found yanked out from under her, this was her angel disappeared and replaced by a gaping darkness. This was _Vaughn._ And she couldn't just— not with everything they'd— it couldn't be true. Could not.

_Or maybe it could._

He'd wanted to kill Lauren, the night he found out. She hadn't told anyone.

Maybe she could have stopped it from happening. That look in his eyes as he sat at her kitchen table— the hate, the bottomless pit of loathing and betrayal— she might have stopped it, she could have done . . . something. Anything.

She waved off the concerned looks of Dixon and her father and just tried to breathe. In, out. In, out.

In. _Get a grip, Sydney. This isn't your fault; he's not your responsibility._ Out.

In. _You can't let this be the thing that breaks you; you're not allowed._ Out.

In. _Besides, you still haven't made those pancakes for Sark._

Instead of breathing out steadily, she made a choking sound that might have almost passed for a laugh. God, what a mess her life had become. As long as this campaign against the Covenant dragged on, she couldn't escape the feeling of dangling in some purgatory between the old attachments and the new. It was a tenuous, painful position, and Sydney tolerated it because she had to. But something had to change before it all drove her fucking insane.

Those were the thoughts running through her mind when her cell phone began to ring. The direct line for Sark.

Her father and Dixon watched closely as she answered, but she did her very best to ignore them.

"What's going on?" she asked abruptly. Sydney wasn't in the mood for pleasantries and she knew Sark wouldn't mind.

"I'm afraid Sloane's operation is further along than we anticipated."

_Oh, that's just perfect._ Her hand clenched around the phone and she restrained the urge to kick something, _hard._ "What do you mean?"

"While he appeared to be underground, Arvin was using the Omnifam databases to search for an individual who matched a specific DNA profile. He found her today, and the CIA will need to work quickly if you want to reach her before the Covenant. I hacked into the computer systems here for the information."

"We'll find her. Sark, I need you to give me the name."

There was a pause, like someone checking a piece of paper, because Sark had an excellent memory but they could not afford to screw this up.

"The target is an SI agent in Argentina. Nadia Santos."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** So, yeah… that. I should eventually be posting a side story about Vaughn, but be warned— it is very, very dark. Believe it or not, I actually really like Vaughn, but by the end of season 3 he was freaking scary. Torturing Jong Lee and Sark, planning to disfigure Lauren (both of which, to me, show a lot more sadism than just anger at being betrayed), burning down his own home… it all just made me wonder what would have happened if he fell into that darknes and didn't magically bounce back.

Sorry this took so long! Some of the scenes were just wildly uncooperative, but I did my best and I hope you like it.

friend9810 – I totally stole this story's title from MCR, and all the chapters are named after their songs as well. For some reason writing Rivalita involved a lot of Green Day and Rob Thomas, and this has leaned more towards My Chemical Romance and the Mountain Goats.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV. Save Yourself, I'll Hold Them Back**

_If you're walking, keep your head low.  
><em>_Try to leave no traces when you go._

The CIA's main advantage was that the Covenant would have to orchestrate a tactical operation to secure Agent Santos. They, on the other hand, could go in the front door, and Director Dixon's old contact from the Gulf War was more than happy to smooth the way.

"Alvarez assures me that Agent Santos will not be attached to any missions overseas until she's heard what we have to say. Ultimately, the decision to remain in Argentina or enter protective custody will be hers, but he wants her to be informed. Syd, Larson— you'll be going to talk to her in person. Weiss, you'll be heading the security team in charge of backup. We might be beating Sloane to the punch, but I'm not going to take chances. Everybody comes home safely."

"That is usually the goal," Quint pointed out, spinning back and forth in his chair. When everyone but Marshall turned to glare at him, he held his hands up in a placating gesture. "Hey, don't mind me! Just thinking out loud. Go about your business."

"_On that note_," Dixon continued, still glowering, "you'll be armed and fully wired for the length of the op. You'll talk to Marshall when we're done here."

Marshall tipped his prominent chin at them and gave a little wave. "Yep, I'll get you all geared up for the rescue mission… I mean, it's not— not so much a rescue I guess, since she's not actually in, uh, danger, yet. More like a kind of friendly hello, invitation, like 'Hey, neighbor, wanna come over, have a few beers? We got buffalo wings' … which, incidentally, have… nothing to do with buffalo, is anyone else weirded out by tha—?"

"Marshall." Dixon shot him a stern look over his interlaced fingers.

"Right," he agreed, subsiding immediately.

Jack took over the briefing from there. "When you go into SI headquarters, you'll be well-armed. We've used the blueprints of the building to map out all the major exits and the most likely backups. While it's unlikely the Covenant would launch a full-scale assault on such a secure facility, we've got to plan for every eventuality. Should Agent Santos refuse our offer of protection, we'll have no legal recourse. In theory, the SI should be more than capable of keeping her safe."

There was a muttered comment about crazy whackjobs and machetes that ended with Weiss twitching in his seat and Quint clutching his ankle in pain.

Predictably, Jack barely raised an eyebrow. "If there are no questions, I suggest you proceed to op-tech as quickly as possible. Wheels up in forty-five minutes."

Sydney had forgotten just how quickly Marshall could talk when there was a time limit.

"All right, well, we didn't have time to make anything super-special because, you know, I may be a genius but even _I_ can't slap anything really good together on such short notice, I mean— well, I could've, maybe, but— not important! Um, Syd, you'll be wearing this— tracking device bracelet, just snap it on and… beep! gotcha on satellite, and Quint, here, yours is a watch, you don't really strike me as a bracelet kinda guy— not that there would be… anything wrong with— yeah, so leave those on, I'll be keepin' an eye on you from here, and, uh— I'm afraid that's about it, the security team'll get you all wired and, guns, I guess, but voila! My work here is done."

They just blinked at him for a few seconds, but Sydney recovered first.

"Is . . . that it?"

"Yep, that's it, you're all set!" Marshall nodded at them with a guilty look, as if he were to blame for not handing them some miracle gadget on a few hours' notice.

Quint rubbed his hands together. "Lock and load," he announced portentously, and dodged Sydney's slap by a hair.

**Buenos Aires**

Nadia Santos was a slim, small woman with quick dark eyes and a firm handshake. She ushered Sydney and Quint into a conference room and asked them to sit down in perfect, almost unaccented English. "Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice," Sydney said once they'd all been seated.

"It's no problem. I just got back from a mission in Chechnya and I'm not particularly busy at the moment."

"Chechnya, huh," said Larson before Sydney could kick him. "How is it there this time of year?"

Santos raised a single black eyebrow. "In the labor camps, not so nice."

"Ah."

"So what can I do for you?" Nadia asked, turning slightly towards Sydney.

Well, this was going to be interesting. Sydney laced her fingers together on the table, unconsciously mimicking Dixon. "We have reason to believe that you are in danger. Do you know anything about a man named Arvin Sloane?"

Nadia's forehead creased in thought. "Not much. Mostly his work with Omnifam, and his abduction several months ago."

For a moment Sydney had a strange sort of out-of-body experience. What was it like for people who had never encountered Sloane in their lives? How did it feel to think of him as just a name in the papers— a distant, unimportant quasi-reformed bad guy in a sea of bad guys? She wished that just for one second she could have that distance, and not remember how many ways Arvin Sloane had managed to rip the happiness from her life. The lives of everyone he touched. She envied Nadia Santos.

But then she remembered that Nadia was his next target, and the moment passed.

"The abduction was just a cover. Sloane's been working for the Covenant ever since, and now he's looking for you."

"For me . . . ?" Nadia glanced between the two of them and shook her head slightly. "Why would he want to find me, I've had no contact with the Covenant."

Quint's smile was grim. "I don't think you need to. Sloane is obsessed with a man named Milo Rambaldi," he explained, leaning forward on the table. "Almost every major move he's made in the past couple years has been trying to make this crazy dead guy's prophecies come true."

"Also providing clean water to third-world countries and funding medical research," she pointed out, clearly unimpressed.

"You have to trust us on this." Quint winced a little as he realized how spectacularly unconvincing that sounded.

Sydney attempted to pick up the argument. "For some reason — we don't know why — he's decided to focus on you, and honestly . . . I've seen firsthand what happens to his targets. When he finds you, you're going to want backup. Backup who understand the way he operates, and who—"

Nadia held up a hand, and even though her jaw clenched with the effort, Sydney fell silent.

"I'm sure your intentions are good. But I also think you may be blinded by your past involvement with Arvin Sloane." She folded her hands together with a finality that didn't seem to bode well. "I appreciate your coming here to warn me, but I'm not going to leave my country without some kind of proof. Even then—"

"_Phoenix, we've spotted Bomani on the side street. You need to move out __now__._"

She and Quint stood and pulled their weapons as one, and Sydney locked eyes with Nadia.

"Funny you should ask."

* * *

><p>They hadn't moved fast enough.<p>

Bomani was as skilled as he was ruthless— Sloane may have been the brains of the operation but even he'd be no match for Bomani on the ground. They should have planned accordingly, allotted extra time, but they hadn't. Or maybe it just wasn't enough. Either way, their group was split. Sydney had no idea where Weiss and the rest of the security team had gone, or even if they were still alive. She was running for her life with Nadia and Quint, and there was no time for comms.

They sprinted through the bright midday of Buenos Aires, trying to keep in mind the location of the security van. The problem with choosing the most unpopulated streets was that, while it may have prevented collateral damage, it afforded them far less coverage from the shooters on their heels.

Then Quint tripped her.

She knew why almost immediately, as a barrage of expertly aimed gunfire flew through the space where her chest had been. Unfortunately this did nothing for the long gash on her upper arm when she'd fallen on the jagged stone corner of a trash can. _Keep the adrenaline_, she coached herself, clenching her fist hard. _Don't look at it, don't feel it, just go, dammit—_

"Are you all right?" Quint shouted, laying down cover fire.

Sydney pushed hard with her uninjured arm and lurched to her feet. "Fine!"

"Keep going! I'm right behind you."

There was no time to hesitate, but as she stumbled into a flat-out run she prayed he'd make it out of here alive. Sydney fell in next to Agent Santos, running for the end of the street with everything they had. They kept pace well, even thought Nadia was smaller— she was also uninjured and remarkably fast. At the corner, Sydney hesitated only long enough to make sure she saw the right van, and Weiss (_thank god, Weiss_) in the driver's seat.

"Go!" she snapped, turning even as she pointed to cover Quint's escape. Sydney hit one, maybe two of the Covenant's agents before Larson came flying past her, laughing in a manic, exhilarated way that had nothing to do with humor. Together, they crashed through the open doors of the van. Quint swung them shut as Weiss accelerated into the street with a screech of tires; Sydney just tried to hold on to something and count the agents around her.

Davidson, Robbins, Zhang, McMarran. Not enough. Not _nearly_ enough, what had they been thinking?

Sharp pain on her wound brought Sydney back. She looked over and saw Agent Santos cutting a long strip of bandage—the pain had come when she cut off Sydney's sleeve and peeled it away from the mess of blood. Nadia bound the arm tightly without mentioning what they both knew: later there would be antiseptic, probably stitches, but for now they just had to stop the bleeding. The gash had come close to her brachial vein but missed; it looked more serious than it really was.

Lucky thing it was a few inches off, Sydney thought, feeling a little light-headed from adrenaline, blood loss and pain. Sark would be absolutely furious if she got killed by a public waste receptacle.

Rather than laugh at her completely inappropriate train of thought, she looked down at Nadia, who was currently using some spare gauze to clean the mess from Sydney's arm and hand. When she finished, Santos looked up. Her lips were tight with stress, but those striking dark eyes were clear. Honest.

"You were right," she said simply.

"Well," Sydney tried to smile, shrugged and grimaced at the pain. "I don't want to say 'I told you so,' but . . ."

They looked at each other for a moment longer, and Sydney thought she and Nadia Santos just might be able to get along.

Of course, then Quint's head whipped around from where he was inspecting another agent's injuries. "Syd! Did you just make a _joke_? During a _mission_? Good god, someone call the paramedics!" he yelled. "This woman's in trouble!"

She wanted to complain to someone, but Weiss was positively cackling, the rest of the team was racked by mysterious coughs, and even Nadia's lips twitched.

So instead, she just leaned against the headrest and sighed.

**Los Angeles**

Debriefing was hell. Debriefing was always hell, but injuries never helped, and aside from her bandaged arm Sydney was developing a monster of a headache.

They'd lost three agents in Argentina—two shot, and the other one sliced to ribbons. The families would never know how or why, not really. And after spending the last two hours making her report, she had to wait around in the interview room for Larson to corroborate before they'd let her go. The medics had fixed her up while she talked— eight stitches, new gauze and a bottle of pain meds that just didn't want to do their job.

Days like this . . . Sydney combed her fingers through her hair and corrected herself. _Months_ like this, when she came home battered and weary and aching, she wondered how much longer she could keep it up. How many years of her life could she give to the agency before it was all too much to take?

"Sydney."

_Sark._ He was standing in the doorway, flesh and blood and a tailored suit. Of course, she realized, he'd been sent back to LA to look for Arvin's precious target. This mattered to her for all of five seconds before she held out a hand. She'd only seen him within the agency a handful of times, and it still felt surreal. His shoes tapped out four even paces on the concrete floor of the interview room and then he was there, his eyes dull grey with a weariness only partly due to physical exhaustion.

She put her uninjured arm around his waist and leaned her cheek against his stomach to feel his breathing. Sark's skin was warm beneath the fabric of his shirt, and he smelled like linen and airplanes and faint, expensive cologne. The angle was awkward for him, but one of his hands stroked over the tight knot of her shoulders.

"I need a vacation," she murmured. "Would you mind kidnapping me again?"

"Hm. I have a very nice safehouse in Tobago."

"Please." Sydney smiled sleepily into his shirt.

"Hey, Syd, you can . . ." The silence that fell was too charged to ignore— she jerked her head up immediately, but it was too late. Weiss was just outside the room, frozen in place and looking completely stunned. "The, uh. The IA guy says you're free to go. Are— are you—? You're. . ."

Her grip on Sark tightened, almost convulsively, giving her away even if she'd wanted to lie. Even if she'd thought there was a chance Weiss would buy it.

Eric's mouth was hanging open. "Uh. Okay. I . . . You can go back upstairs. Whenever you're ready."

He turned to go, but Sydney was already on her feet. She caught his sleeve a few yards down the hall, before he could reach the elevators.

"Eric! Wait."

"Syd, I'm not gonna lecture you," he said, turning to face her. "Whatever you do, it's . . . your business. I mean," Weiss hesitated. "How long—?"

She blinked.

"No." He waved a hand as if erasing the question. "I'm sorry, it's none of my business."

Behind her, Sydney heard Sark leave the interview room and walk to the back staircase without a word. She hadn't wanted it to play out this way. She'd hoped there might be some quiet moment to break the news to the few people in her life who mattered enough to know. Perhaps by then she would have known what to say, what words to use to make this relationship acceptable in the eyes of people who hated Julian Sark and all the things he'd done.

"About nine months," she told Weiss quietly. Searching his face for a reaction was more difficult than she'd expected.

"Ah," was all he said for a long moment. Sydney tried to wait it out, but the silence became too much.

"I know it's not my place to ask, but could you not . . . ?"

"Hey, no, I mean. It's your choice, Syd. Just . . ." Weiss looked down and shook his head. "I don't know, be careful."

"I will."

"Yeah." He met her eyes again, uncertain. "Can we talk? Sometime soon— when you're feeling better—"

"Of course," she said, reaching out to squeeze his arm. "I'd like that."

Her phone vibrated with a text message from Sark. _Meet you in the car._

"I should go."

"Yeah! Me too," Eric said, looking mildly relieved. "Upstairs?"

She nodded. "I should at least check in with Dixon before I leave."

The rotunda was unusually busy for this hour, full of everyone from techies to Agent Santos' newly designated security detail. Director Dixon was multi-tasking, signing off on stacks of reports while listening to an options report about rerouting a particular satellite in the Scandinavian region. After a few more moments he thanked and dismissed the agents and looked around the room.

"Syd," he called, and waited until she was close enough for him to lower his voice. "I think we're through here. We'll need to keep Agent Santos here for a while, but I want you to go home. Take a few days off, get some rest. I'll call you if there's news."

"Thank you," said Sydney, then hesitated. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and Dixon raised his eyebrows, sensing there was more. "About Nadia," she began, unsure when she'd started thinking of Agent Santos by her first name. "She's been through a lot today. Maybe we should call it a day, debrief her in the morning."

Dixon made a face that was barely visible, but Sydney knew her point was made; prolonged interrogation by Jack Bristow was a daunting prospect for any agent, let alone a young woman who'd just been taken from her homeland. "I'll see what I can do," he agreed. "And Syd? Good work today."

"Good night," she said with a sad smile, and quietly left the Rotunda.

Sark was waiting for her in the parking garage, already in the driver's seat of her car. The ride home was blissfully silent, full of the soothing static rush of the highway that made no demands on her time or energy. She stared out at it, already half-asleep, and tried not to notice that Sark had something on his mind.

It nearly worked. But by the time they reached her bedroom, curiosity had gotten the best of her. When her jacket was on a chair and her gun placed on the bedside table, Sydney squared her shoulders and did her best to rally. One last thing before bed. It would be fine.

"What?" she asked, knowing she might regret it.

"In your conversation with Agent Weiss, you hesitated to confirm our relationship." She opened her mouth to respond without thinking, but he just held up a hand and fixed her with those implacable, calculating blue eyes. "Sydney. If you're having doubts, now would be the time to share them."

It was absolutely, unequivocally not the time for _anything_. Not in the state she was in. Almost anyone would have known that, but Sark wasn't almost anyone. And even though Sydney chose Sark knowing there would be moments like this, all she could think was that she'd hurt him and all she could feel was guilt.

"_No,_" she breathed, quiet and raw. Sydney blinked back a sudden, absurd onslaught of tears— it was mostly exhaustion, but there was more to it than that. The mental and emotional tightrope was wearing thin and she knew it. Everything was strategy and evasion now, lulling the Covenant into a false sense of security when all she wanted to do was let the bastards burn. Instead of attacking them openly she had to dance around the edges and watch innocent people die. It was depleting every reserve she had and she _didn't know if she could do this much longer._

Sark stepped forward, haltingly, with a change in his eyes. Not understanding, but regret.

"I apologize," he murmured, reaching out to cradle her face in his hands. "I . . ." The words trailed away, and he bit his lip. Lost. "Perhaps you should sleep."

She stripped down to a tank top and slipped into bed. Into his arms. When her breath hitched in her throat, he just held her close, careful, until she remembered and let it all go in one long, shuddering exhalation. Sark's chin tucked against her shoulder and his fingers traced a line on her hip.

It was warm and it was safe, and she was going to be all right.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Happy New Year, everybody!

As always, thank you so much for your patience, and for being the best readers and reviewers anyone could ask for. Every single time I get a review, or a notification that someone put these stories on their alerts or favorite, I flail at my computer like a small and ridiculous child. You guys are absolutely wonderful.


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